


Until There's Nothing Left

by Lokiscribe



Series: This Was My Home [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Despair, Episode: s05e10 Mother's Mercy, F/M, Fear, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pain, Punishment, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Trauma, Violence, Winterfell, Wrongful Imprisonment, flaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:37:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4506273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokiscribe/pseuds/Lokiscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Reek hadn't killed Myranda in the S5 finale? </p><p>Alternate version of the 'escape from Winterfell' scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A couple months ago, I asked nanjcsy to write me a story based on this premise, and she did (it was great; it's called "This Wasn't How It Was Going to Happen" and you can find it my 'Gifts' list), but I decided to write my own interpretation as well! 
> 
> The first chapter is fairly benign, but the second chapter is VIOLENT AS FUCK, so if you don't like reading about rape and torture, I'd suggest not reading that chapter. 
> 
> ~~~
> 
> For those of you who read me regularly, I PROMISE I'm working on part 4 of the To Go On Living series. It will be posted in late August.

Sansa could feel her heart racing as she rushed away from the broken tower. As a child, she’d had no cause at all to feel any fear within the walls of Winterfell, but now, as she hurried to get back to her room before Ramsay could return from battle, anxiety clawed acutely inside her chest. She’d immediately recognized that Stannis Baratheon would not defeat the Boltons, and while the view from the tower had made her feel many things - dread for the doomed men in Stannis’ army, bitter disappointment at the loss of a chance for freedom - the survival instinct she’d acquired since her captivity in King’s Landing told her that the battle would be a short one; that she’d best return to her chambers, and quickly. 

So now she endeavored to do just that, hastening up the steps toward the level from which she could access her room. She reached the top and made to turn right, but no sooner had she done so than a man rounded the corner, moving rapidly towards her. Heart hammering diffidently inside her rib cage, she changed course forthwith, praying fervently that he would not suspect anything. Her intention had been to take the shortest route to her destination, but it would now be necessary to travel nearly the entire perimeter of the city in order to get there. She was concerned at the additional time this would would require, but she could not, absolutely could _not_ afford to be seen and recognized. 

And so she darted intently through the corridors, painfully aware of the racket her shoes made each time they came in contact with the wooden floorboards. She nervously looked behind her with some frequency, afraid that the man would have elected to follow her in light of her oddly sudden change of direction. Even when she came to a particularly isolated section of the city, she could not bring herself to relax. The stakes were simply too high. 

Yet she’d seen no one, and perhaps she’d arrive quicker if she directed her attention exclusively forwards. She took one last glance over her left shoulder, then turned around… 

Sansa froze. 

Directly in front of her stood Myranda, outstretched bow aiming an arrow directly at her heart. She’d been so preoccupied with looking back that she’d failed to see Ramsay’s whore materialize just ahead. 

The kennel master’s daughter wore a smugly satisfied smile on her face, seeming to savor Sansa’s obvious dismay. An especially timid Reek stood beside her, though he was hardly visible in his dark clothing and with his hair hanging over his eyes. Apart from his impossibly pale face, nothing about his silent submissiveness offered cause to pay attention to him. The same, most unfortunately, could not be said for Myranda.

“My lady,” she said, speaking with a false sweetness that made Sansa’s stomach turn. “I’ve come to escort you back to your chamber.”

“Go with her,” Reek begged, lifting his traumatized gaze slightly upward. “Please.” He didn’t entirely meet Sansa’s eye, nor did Myranda bother to acknowledge his presence. 

Well. 

Perhaps Theon Greyjoy had been dispossessed of the strength to resist his captors, but Sansa Stark presently could stand this misery no longer. 

“I know what Ramsay is,” she began, managing to keep her voice steady despite the shaking of her hands. “I know what he’ll do to me. If I’m going to die, let it happen while there’s still some of me left.” 

Though she wasn’t looking at him, she could see Reek’s face contort in her peripheral vision. 

As for herself, Sansa strangely felt rather little. In fact, she could sense that her expression was decidedly resigned. She wondered if this was how a condemned man felt immediately before losing his head. 

“Dying?” Myranda lowered her bow, appearing quite amused. “Who said anything about dying? You can’t die. Your father was Warden of the North; Ramsay needs you…” She tilted her head patronizingly, as though speaking to a naïve child. Then her eyes flickered downward. 

“Though I suppose he doesn’t need all of you,” she continued, pretending to contemplate whether Sansa ought to remain whole. “Just the parts he’ll use to make his heir, until you’ve given him a boy or two, and he’s finished using them. Then…” she said, twitching her eyebrows with barely concealed excitement, “he’s got _incredible_ plans for those parts.” Her bow once again rose to the level of Sansa’s chest. “So… shall we wait for him to come back, or should we begin now?” 

Sansa voice caught in her throat. When she’d thought she would die, she’d been ready to accept her fate, but what Myranda spoke of was ongoing torture… She couldn’t take it anymore, she _couldn’t_ … Was Theon right? Could life possibly get worse than it already was? Ramsay _hadn’t_ maimed her yet… 

“You’re leaving it to me?” Myranda said softly, interpreting her silence as abstention. “Good. Let’s begin.” And she tightened her lips into a concentrated line.

Sansa felt frozen to the spot where she stood. Fear paralyzed her as she watched the lowborn girl pull the bowstring taught, but an internal part of her recognized that at such close range, she would not be able to evade Myranda’s arrow. Feeling both helpless and terrified, she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for something sharp to pierce one of her limbs. 

“No!” A voice cried out. “Please m’lady, don’t - _ahh!_ A sickening thud rang out as Myranda’s elbow connected with Reek’s face, prompting Sansa to open her eyes again. 

Noticing her panicked appearance, Myranda laughed. “Did you really think I would begin hurting you without Ramsay present? Stupid girl. He’d flay me for such a thing. Regrettably I’ll have to ask his permission. But I must say it’s wonderful to see you fret.” 

“What do you think, Reek?” Myranda called without looking back at him. “How will Lord Ramsay punish his beloved wife for her betrayal?”

Reek only whimpered, blood flowing from his nose where she’d struck him. 

“I’d imagine she’ll be losing some skin,” Myranda sang. 

“You’re sick, both of you!” Sansa blurted out, grimacing in disgust and horror. “Completely twisted! You’re jealous of me for marrying Ramsay, I know, but you needn’t wish pain on me! It wasn’t _my_ choice to marry him; I was practically _forced_ to!”

“And why would that make any difference to me? Ramsay had promised I’d be his wife, until _you_ came along and ruined everything.” Myranda paused for a moment, regarding Sansa coldly. “I would enjoy nothing more than to watch Ramsay’s hounds tear your pretty face apart. After a good long hunt, of course.” A grim smile spread across her features.

Sansa faltered. How could she possibly respond to that? It was the speech of a depraved individual, one bereft of reason. She knew she should offer a retort, lest she appear weak, but the gruesome image of a hound standing over her own mutilated corpse filled her mind, shutting down any semblance of defiance she might have been able to muster. 

As it transpired, she would not have had the opportunity to speak, regardless, for just then a trumpet sounded, accompanied by a cry of, “Open the gates!” Reek’s head shot up in horror, causing Myranda to laugh. “Yes, your master’s returned now, hasn’t he, Reek?” she taunted. “Unfortunately for our dear Lady Sansa…” 

Sansa tried to fix a look of hatred on her face, to demonstrate bravery befitting the Lady of Winterfell, but she could see from her captor’s smiling visage that her efforts were unsuccessful. It was therefore a heavily gloating Myranda who compelled her to turn around and walk back along the route she had just traveled. Sansa knew she had no choice but to comply, yet she couldn’t help but hesitate, shooting an anxious glance at Theon. He gaped back at her with wide eyes.

“ _Move_ ,” Myranda ordered threateningly, thrusting the point of her arrow toward her prisoner. Stumbling, Sansa turned to obey, though she really didn’t want to lose sight of the woman who wished her such harm. It was a highly uncomfortable feeling, having a weapon aimed at her back, especially considering who wielded it. 

She began to move stiffly onward, looking back haltingly at her captor, but Myranda only jabbed the bow at her once again. “Go on, you cunt! Ramsay will want to learn of your misdeeds.” Sansa felt the arrow’s sharp point pierce the skin of her left shoulder blade, and she winced, willing herself to face forward. Her pace increased to more closely match the one she’d assumed earlier when attempting to return to her room. 

Myranda forced her to walk along the battlements until they came to the section that overlooked the main gates of Winterfell, through which scores of horses were returning from the battle against Stannis Baratheon. Ramsay Bolton was there and had already dismounted his steed, the blood splattered on his boots hinting at the merciless massacre it must have been. The violence and tragedy of war, though, did not seem to burden him whatsoever; in fact he seemed somewhat rejuvenated. 

_Perhaps if he’s in a good mood, he’ll be less inclined to hurt me…_

Myranda exuded palpable excitement as they drew nearer. “Ramsay,” she sang. “Look what I have here for you.” 

The Bastard of Bolton glanced up at them, his eyes instantly glittering with malice. “Myranda. What is my lady wife doing out of her room? Has she been misbehaving again?” 

The intensity of his stare seemed capable of piercing holes in Sansa’s skull, but she willed herself to look him in the eye, refusing to be cowed. 

“Oh, she has, My Lord,” Myranda cooed. “I found her running loose around the city. Such an untamed wolf bitch, she is.” 

“Now, now, Myranda, don’t refer to my wife in such vulgar terms,” Ramsay chided. Myranda muttered an insincere apology, but Ramsay didn’t seem very offended, for he said no more to his bed warmer, instead turning to Theon. 

“Reek?” he asked. “Did you let my wife escape her chamber?” 

“No, no m’lord, I swear!” came the frantic reply. “Please, I didn’t, I didn’t know!” 

Myranda rolled her eyes. “Must you make him whine so?” 

“Oh, but he’s so delightful when he begs.” 

Sansa must have grimaced, for the bastard said to her, “Do you not agree, my sweet wife? Does it not please you to hear the creature who murdered your brothers squealing in distress?”

Sansa felt Reek throw an apprehensive glance her way. _They aren’t dead, you monster,_ she wanted to say. _That’s a lie!_

But despite what she’d said to Theon earlier in the week, she didn’t want Ramsay to torture him on account of her loss of temper, so instead she answered, “I don’t find enjoyment in the suffering of others, My Lord.” 

“Ah,” Ramsay said. “How very… _noble_ of you. I heard the same of your father, before his head rolled. Clearly it served him well.”

“Don’t speak of my father!” Sansa demanded fiercely. She could not stand to hear him mocked, not by a man who had already taken so much from her. 

Ramsay’s eyes narrowed. “How dare you speak to me that way? You’ve already gone against my wishes by departing your room without my leave. I wouldn’t make more trouble for yourself.” 

“You’ll do what you want to me, regardless.” 

Ramsay laughed. “Smart little woman. It’s a shame you weren’t smart enough to do as you were told in the first place. Myranda, take her back. I will follow shortly.” 

“Yes, My Lord,” Myranda said gleefully, grabbing Sansa by the arm and shoving her in the direction of her prison. 

“Ohh, you’re in trouble now, you cunt!” Myranda sang. “Ramsay’s going to be _so_ angry with you… and he’s not very nice when he’s angry, is he, Reek?” 

Behind Sansa, Theon sobbed. 

“He’s not nice when he isn’t angry either,” she muttered. 

Myranda prodded her in the back. “You shouldn’t say such things about your Lord husband. I can’t imagine what he’d do if he found out...”

Her tone suggested that in fact she very well _did_ know what Ramsay would do. 

Sansa whirled around, nearly colliding with the arrow still mounted on Myranda’s bow. Her fear hadn’t left her, but she could no longer tolerate this jealous bitch’s provocation.

“It matters not what I say, nor what I do!” she hissed, tears falling from her eyes despite herself. “Whether I praise him or damn him, Ramsay will remain the monster that I know him to be. So don’t waste your breath trying to frighten me, because I already know what he’s capable of!” 

Myranda’s face darkened, but she apparently found it in her to restrain herself, for she merely tightened her grip on the bow and demanded, _”Walk.”_

For the remainder of the journey, there was only a hostile silence, interrupted by naught apart from Reek’s harsh breaths and awkward footfalls as he limped along at their heels. When they reached their destination, he fumbled with the key, his mangled fingers transforming the simple act of opening a lock into a considerable struggle. 

“Sometimes I wonder why Ramsay puts up with you, Reek,” Myranda commented, drumming her fingers on her bow with impatience. “You really aren’t good for anything, yet he _insists_ on having you serve him.” 

Theon finally managed to turn the key in the lock, and the door swung open. He then darted to the side to make way for Myranda, who shoved Sansa inside. 

“I’m his pet, m’lady,” Theon stuttered, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. 

“If you were _my_ pet, I’d drown you in the nearest well.”

“Oh, leave him alone!” Sansa said angrily. “He’s done nothing to you.” 

Myranda slammed the door shut with unnecessary pugnacity. “You’re in enough trouble already, _My Lady_. I wouldn’t make it any worse for yourself!”

“There’s no need to act so aggressively,” Sansa replied, somewhat sarcastically, dropping down onto her mattress. “I am the Lady of Winterfell, after all.” The bed gave a horrible screech when she sat upon it, causing Reek to flinch wildly. 

“That wasn’t very ladylike,” Myranda said snidely, smirking both at her and the trembling Theon. 

Sansa looked her directly in the eye. “And what would you know about being a lady?”

Fury rose in the other woman’s expression, just as it had on Ramsay’s face when Sansa had called him a bastard, but Sansa felt a rush of satisfaction when she noted there was also a tinge of hurt. _It’s her status that keeps her and Ramsay apart_ she realized. She would have to remember that for the future. 

If her husband didn’t kill her first. 

The sound of the door opening drew her attention toward the front of the room. Ramsay entered the room quietly, cloak already folded over his arm and his sleeves rolled up, as if ready for the torment he was about to inflict. He stared at Sansa for a long moment with glittering eyes before tossing his cloak at Reek, who struggled to catch it without permitting the fabric to hit the floor. 

Ramsay advanced toward Sansa slowly, as if he were a lion stalking its prey. “What am I to do with you?” he asked softly. “My disobedient little wife.”

Sansa supplied no answer, not wanting to give him any ideas and _certainly_ not prepared to beg. She merely glared back at him, hatred for the sadistic bastard shining in her every pore. 

“I was so merciful,” he continued, “After you asked my Reek to help you escape. I forgave your hurtful show of infidelity. And yet you _had_ to try again, didn’t you, my lady?” 

“I wasn’t trying to escape,” Sansa argued, actually managing to sound somewhat haughty. “I just wanted to see the battle.”

Ramsay laughed. “Do you expect me to believe that? I’ve kept you isolated here with no news of my father’s plans. You had no knowledge that the battle would take place today, as I full well know. Do you take me for an idiot? Is that it?”

“I’d know not. You don’t much speak to me when you visit at night.” Sansa said defiantly, causing Myranda to snort in amusement. Ramsay grinned back at her. 

“There’s so much fun to be had, my sweet,” he said, addressing Sansa. “Talking would only cause a delay. And that would be quite boring. Myranda, what do I do to women when they bore me?”

Myranda laughed. “Ohhh, it never ends well for them!”

“Ends quite well for my bitches, though. My girls do enjoy their reward at the end of a hunt.”

“That’s barbaric!” Sansa couldn’t help but exclaim. 

“Yes, it’s not very pretty,” Ramsay agreed. “But it cures my boredom, and that’s what really matters, doesn’t it? I can’t hunt you, for obvious reasons, so I suppose we’ll just have to continue having our fun. You enjoy our nightly meetings, don’t you, my lady?”

Sansa’s hands balled into fists around the blankets, further rumpling the fabric that repeated assaults had left stained and disheveled. “No!” she replied vehemently. “I could never enjoy a single moment in your presence, you bastard!” 

Reek breathed in sharply from across the room, and even Myranda looked a bit alarmed. Ramsay Bolton’s face turned darker than she’d ever seen it, and Sansa Stark knew in an instant that she’d made a mistake of monumental proportions.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***[[ **The rest of the fic is extremely violent, so stop reading here if you don’t want to read about graphic torture** ]]***

As Ramsay lunged toward her, Sansa willed herself not to cower, though she did stiffen in anticipation of what was to come. 

She expected him to push her down and climb on top of her, so it took her by surprise when instead he backhanded her across the face. Stunned, she fell to the ground, cutting her cheek on the bedframe. But before she even had time to look up at him in shock, she felt herself roughly hauled to her feet, his hand closing around her neck. He lifted her by the throat and threw her onto the bed, the fury shining in his eyes absolutely terrifying to behold. 

Despite gasping for air, she attempted to scramble backwards, but her irate husband wasted no time in climbing onto the mattress himself and seizing her legs in his hands. As he roughly pulled her into a lying position, she tried to shove him away, but Ramsay grabbed her arms and wrenched them above her head, capturing both wrists in one hand. With her body now trapped securely beneath him, he used his other hand to undo his breeches and free his cock, which was already hard and glistening with pre-cum. Sansa had no idea how he could _possibly_ be so aroused in the midst of all his anger, but she knew from experience that the pleasure mixing with ire on his face made for an extremely dangerous combination. Terror rose up inside of her, but no matter how she resisted, she could not free herself from his clutches. 

As Ramsay tore through her smallclothes and ripped them from her body, Sansa looked away, desperate to remove herself from the situation, but all she managed was to catch a glimpse of Myranda, watching from across the room with a cruel smile on her face. It occurred to Sansa that Myranda had never seen Ramsay rape her before. How enjoyable this must be for her, then… 

Suddenly, Ramsay shoved into her and Sansa _screamed_. This shouldn’t have seemed new; shouldn’t have felt any different from any of the other nights since the wedding, but somehow, _somehow_ , this time hurt _even_ worse than anything he had ever done to her before. Normally Ramsay only sought a bit of fun when he came to her; in fact he was often in quite a good mood, but tonight he was absolutely livid. He thrust his hips with more force than he had ever used in the past, growling every time, the rage in his eyes like nothing that Sansa had ever seen before. 

“Please!” she sobbed when the pain reached an unfathomable level. “Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” But Ramsay only thrust harder in response, and then she felt him pulling her arms to her sides, pinning her wrists to the mattress with each of his hands. He leaned his fact in close to hers. “Never,” he snarled, biting her viciously on the neck, “You are _never_ to address me in that way _ever_ again. Do you understand me, Stark bitch?” 

“Yes, yes, I understand, I’m sorry!” she wept. She didn’t want to submit to Ramsay, didn’t want to let him win, but even in comparison to all he’d already done to her, this retributive rape was completely unbearable. If ever there were a time she had truly been reduced to begging, this would have to be it. 

Ramsay grinned cruelly. “Myranda, go fetch Damon and Skinner. I’ll be needing some assistance.” 

_What else can you possibly do to me?_ Sansa wondered, lying beneath her husband in tearful disbelief. Had she felt this helpless since the execution of her father? Perhaps not… And now the bastard had indicated there was more to come?

“Will you have _them_ rape me too?” Sansa asked bitterly, tears staining her cheeks. She lay on the bed exhausted, no longer struggling against her abuser. She could do nothing to prevent further attacks if Ramsay willed it, but she didn’t know how she could bear much more. Already her insides were _screaming_ as though ripped apart by a red-hot blade. 

Ramsay snarled, gripping her wrists harder. “You’re _mine_. No one else may have you, not if you’re to give me an undisputed heir.”

“Continue to use me the way you do, and I won’t be _capable_ of giving you an heir,” Sansa retorted. 

Ramsay seized her cheeks in a tight grip with his right hand. “You’d better hope for your sake that that doesn’t happen.” 

If she became infertile, Ramsay would kill her. Sansa knew it well. What she didn’t know was whether that would be such a horrible fate. What point was there to living if she was forever condemned to this hellish existence? 

Momentarily absorbed in contemplating her own mortality, Sansa returned to reality when she heard, “Reek, see to it that a room is prepared where I might complete my wife’s punishment.”

Sansa shot a quick glance at Theon, who appeared absolutely traumatized by what he had just witnessed. He stood frozen to the ground, seemingly unable to bring himself to obey. 

“Reek, if I have to tell you again, I swear to all the Gods in Westeros that I’ll flay every toe remaining to you.” 

At that, Theon’s eyes widened in dread, and he practically tripped over his feet in his mad scramble to leave the room. 

After the door shut behind him, Ramsay rolled his eyes. “Such a pathetic creature, my pet. I do apologize for having to divert my attention from you. You may be a faithless little slut, but I’d never want to _neglect_ you... My lovely wife…”

Without warning, he smacked her across the face, his arm moving with astonishing speed. The pain barely registered compared to that which she already felt, but nevertheless Ramsay had hit her incredibly hard. It was therefore amidst an intense ringing in her ears that she heard him giving orders to men upon whom Sansa was too dazed to lay her eyes. “Please,” she whispered, feeling her awareness begin to slip away. “Please.” She barely felt the sticky mix of blood and cum leaking out of her cunt, hardly noticed the brutish hands of Damon and Skinner as they hoisted her up and carried her away. It was as they began to descend stairs toward an ominous darkness that everything finally faded to black. 

~~~~

She abruptly regained consciousness when two rough hands grabbed her face. Much to her displeasure, she found Ramsay standing mere inches from her, grinning savagely. She tried to pull away, but discovered she could not move her arms; they’d been chained in such a way that forced them to remain outstretched. She could arch her back away from the wall, but was unable to take any steps forward due to the way the shackles restricted her movement. 

She said nothing, only gazing back wearily at her husband. Exhausted as she was, she didn’t want to anger him any further. 

Damon and Skinner stood several paces behind Ramsay, lurking in the shadows of the bleak dungeon cell in which she now found herself. It didn’t bode well. Ramsay usually enjoyed tormenting her on his own, so the presence of his sidekicks could only mean he had something special in mind. 

“You’ve been very naughty, dear wife.” the bastard said, his eyes glowing nearly as brightly as the smattering of candles mounted on the walls. The way he spoke to her reminded Sansa of how a dog owner might admonish his recalcitrant pet, which was not only insulting but also disturbing, as she hoped no man would ever treat his dog the way Ramsay treated human beings. No living thing deserved the treatment he bestowed on others. 

“I would never want to hurt you,” Ramsay continued mockingly, “But you must be punished for your wickedness. How dare you even think of leaving me? I am the master of your body and soul. Your very life belongs to me, to do with as I please. As you are about to learn, if you hadn’t already.”

He backed away from her, pulling out a small but dangerous looking knife from inside his clothing. 

“Has Reek told you anything about the training I bestowed upon him?”

“Training?” Sansa asked, slurring her words slightly. Her head ached as though she’d had far too much to drink. “You mean the punishments? The flaying?” 

Ramsay looked amused. “I suppose some might call it punishment. He was certainly very badly behaved when he first came to me… And yes. _Flaying,_ ” he said, rolling the words around his tongue, relishing it. “That’s exactly what I intend to do to you. It seems you are in need of some training as well. And I have always found this method… rather effective.” 

He reached out and told hold of her right hand, studying the pale fingers that extended from it. 

“I think we’ll just do a single finger, since it’s your first time. But if you step out of line again,” he warned, “You’ll be losing two fingers in one go. Or perhaps we’ll make it toes. I do love the way Reek stumbles about.” 

“Haven’t… haven’t you already punished me?” 

Ramsay’s eyes narrowed. “I come to bed you every night, love; doing so just now was hardly enough to correct your transgressions.”

“Y-you don’t need to - ” 

“Don’t presume to tell me what I need to do!” he snapped. “You have no authority in this matter. One of you come hold my bride,” he commanded, addressing his henchmen. “Help her to remain still. Wouldn’t want her thrashing to affect the quality of my work.” 

Damon moved the quickest, to Skinner’s apparent annoyance. He examined her body with greedy eyes as he approached, which Ramsay seemed to notice, for just as Damon reached her, the Bolton heir reached out a hand to stop him short. “If you touch her inappropriately,” he warned, “ Or otherwise seem to enjoy yourself too much, I will hand-feed you your own flayed cock. Is that understood?” 

Damon looked disappointed, but only nodded. Then he placed a hand on her right hip and her left shoulder, so as to hold her in place. When he was satisfied that Sansa was adequately immobilized, Ramsay resumed speaking.

“When Reek went through this, I had him bound to a cross, but I thought that would be too… _undignified_ for the Lady of Winterfell. So I decided to settle for regular old shackles. Allow you to stand on your own two feet.” Ramsay shrugged his shoulders. “Of course that means you aren’t as well secured… but that’s why I brought friends. Now!” he said brightly, clapping his hands together with enthusiasm. “You’re right handed, are you not? I want to be sure you remember this.”

When she didn’t answer, Ramsay struck her face for the third time that day, knocking her head against the wall. 

“Answer me!” He demanded. His expression suggested that continuing to ignore him would be most unwise.

“Yes, I’m right handed.” 

A grin stretched across Ramsay’s face. “Wonderful! Let’s begin, shall we?” And he raised the knife to her right hand.

From the moment the blade dug into the flesh of her little finger, Sansa’s composure crumpled, her breathing reduced to tortured gasps. The pain was absolutely indescribable. Fiery tendrils of agony shot down the length of the finger and spread to her entire hand, sinking into her bones and proliferating even further, resulting in a sensation too excruciating even to beg. All she could manage was to scream, and scream she did each time he dragged the flaying knife down the length of her pinky, parting skin and allowing the deep crimson substance beneath to flow forth. When Ramsay completed his initial cuts and began to peel back the flesh, it felt like stabbing, burning, and crushing all in one, causing her to shriek with abandon. She felt him slice through the remainder of the piece he’d been working on, but she knew she have to endure several more strips before he was through. 

“Please!” she begged as he repositioned the knife. “I can’t take it, please!” 

Ramsay looked at her coldly. “You should have thought of that before you decided to run off.”

Sansa wailed in misery, digging the fingers of her left hand into her palm until it bled, but it did nothing to balance out the pain that soared forth anew when he set to work once more. Sobbing harder than she would have ever thought possible, she felt at times that she was barely getting any air, yet somehow, unmercifully, even the considerable oxygen deprivation did not cause her to pass out. She remained conscious and aware for every stab, every slice, every cut. When Ramsay had finished, she was half crazed with pain, eyes unable to fixate on any of the men in front of her. 

Yet still she heard Ramsay say, “Now normally I’d make you wait a few days before I removed your finger, but I’ll grant you a small piece of mercy, seeing as you _are_ my wife. I will cut your finger off straight away this time, but know that if you incur such a punishment again,” he cautioned, pointing a finger at her, “You’ll be enduring a full week with the flayed digit. You can ask Reek if you want to know what that feels like. I’m fairly certain it’s not his favorite experience.” 

From across the room, Skinner laughed. Ramsay offered a smirk as well, but maintained his focus on Sansa. 

“Do you understand me, wife?”

Unable to move her head, she tried to say yes, but it only came out as a weak and pitiful sound. Fortunately, Ramsay accepted it as an answer. 

“Very good.” 

Sansa barely felt it when the blade cut through her finger, slicing effortlessly through the muscle and bone that skin had once covered. She actually breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to relinquish the body part that had been reduced to naught but a mass of searing pain.

“I’m going to give you a night or two in this cell to think over your sins,” she heard Ramsay say. “Of course I’ll miss you terribly, but it’s for the best.” Leaning close to her ear, he whispered, “I promise I’ll return for you.” He placed a kiss on her cheek, causing an involuntary shudder to rack through her body. She opened her eyes and nearly vomited, for the sweet gaze he now directed upon her clashed so sickeningly with what she knew to be reality. 

Blessedly, Ramsay then pulled away from her. “Leave her to think over her misdeeds,” he ordered. There was a clanking of keys, and Sansa felt someone fumbling with her shackles. In her tortured state, she instantly fell over when her first wrist fell free, the stub of her flayed little finger brushing the ground. Now she really did vomit, spewing wet, vile liquid onto the ground by her feet. She nearly wrenched her left shoulder out of its socket as well, and when the left wrist too fell free, she collapsed into her own mess.

She heard Damon and Skinner laughing as they withdrew, and then the door slammed and she was alone in the dark. 

Shaking uncontrollably, Sansa curled into a ball, cradling her hand against her chest. Every throb of the newly created stump, while mild in comparison to the pain that had preceded amputation, made her flinch. Snot ran from her nose, mixing with the foul-smelling sickness that already sullied the stone floor, but she lacked the energy to wipe it away. _I have to escape_ , she thought, even as she lay motionless on the floor of the cell. _I must get away from here_. But the prospect of liberation now seemed so improbable that dwelling on it only deepened Sansa’s despair. Reek had been right: Ramsay knew everything; knew exactly what tortures to inflict in order to bend her to his will. The thought that future escape attempts might bring about a repeat of what she had just undergone terrified her to no end. 

And so she lay shivering in the dungeons, sobbing quietly and wishing desperately that Lord Baelish had never brought her to the Boltons.


End file.
